


Growing The Beard

by chewysugar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beard Kink, Biting, Blow Jobs, Dean is 21, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nipple Licking, Sam is 17, teencest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sam takes in Dean's new appearance in the space of a microsecond, he realizes with a sudden, arousing jolt that the beard is undeniably the sexiest thing that he's ever seen grace his older brother's body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growing The Beard

The minutes tick by. The shadows slowly start to lengthen across the cracked hardwood of Uncle Bobby's floor. Outside, the piled up cars loom like monuments to industry as the sun begins its westward descent. The radiator buzzes ceaselessly, like the droning of some enormous hornet. It clanks and coughs once or twice but, like the man who owns and maintains it, is not deterred by something as trivial and mortal as age. Uncle Bobby, Sam knows, wouldn't spare the expense to get it fixed unless absolutely necessary.

It's the tenth time Sam has stared at the window as the sun sets; once more it's a completely useless vigil. Uncle Bobby has all but given up telling him that he's fighting a losing battle, and that Dean and Dad will call when they're finally finished their hunt in Maryland. The gruff old mechanic knows better than to try and butt heads with an emotional teenager. Sam knows that Uncle Bobby is worried about him, and he appreciates that fact, but he's too moody and afraid to give it much thought.

Dean has never been gone on a hunt this long. Dad has never wanted to keep him out longer than three days in the past. It's almost ironic, given that Dean was champing at the bit for Dad to take him with on his more dangerous, extended hunts, at least when he was younger. It was always Dad who said no, putting his foot down. Those were the times when Sam knew that, whatever he thought of his father, the man did love his sons in some deep place inside.

Now, however, all he can be is pissed at Dad for taking Dean away for so long, and for something so dangerous.

Sam shifts, pressing his forehead against the streaked, dusty glass, staring hard at the orange and purple sky outside Uncle Bobby's junkyard. Every time he hears the distant rumble of a car hurtling down the highway, his heart leaps in anticipation, hoping against hope that he'll see the familiar nose of Dean's Baby.

But it never shows.

It's always either a Peterbrilt or some other random traveler.

Sam sighs, disturbing a pool of dust that makes his mouth all the more dry. It'll be dark soon, and then Uncle Bobby will gently tell him that maybe it's time to have a shower and hit the hay.

Another restless night alone in the double bed crammed into the spare bedroom. Sam didn't even have time to properly enjoy the homely feeling of being at Uncle Bobby's with Dean. Dad took off for the hunt less then two days after they showed up at the junkyard, and Sam and Dean had been careful, painfully careful, not to give themselves away.

Perhaps that was why Sam was so moody and anxious. He hadn't had anything other than the odd jerk off session in the shower for three weeks. Even before they arrived at Uncle Bobby's, Sam and Dean barely had a moment to themselves, what with Dad throwing himself into research in preparation for the hunt he was now on.

The endless days and scarce forms of entertainment around the junkyard mean that when Sam isn't reading Uncle Bobby's old comics, perusing whatever books on the occult that he can find, or watching reruns of  _Xena_  on the junky old TV, he's either lying on the bed that he was supposed to share with Dean or bracing himself against the mildewy shower wall and going to the palm prom like nobody's business.

"Hey kiddo."

Uncle Bobby's voice is gentle in his own special way. Sam thinks of him as some kind of lumbering, middle aged Grizzly bear; he shows more affection than Dad does, even if it's in his own gruff way.

For a moment, Sam continues to stare out the window, his hair flattened against his forehead. He doesn't want to turn around because he knows he'll hear the same thing as all the other nights:  _they'd call if something was wrong, you really shouldn't be stressing yourself out, and maybe it's time to hit the hay._

Even the prospect of showering before bed doesn't appeal to Sam. He hasn't jerked off in the last four days, his hormones shriveling under the duress of his anxiety.

"You thirsty?" Uncle Bobby asks. He's standing right behind Sam, his reflection blurred in the streaky, dusty window. It's not the usual suggestion, which Sam is inwardly grateful for but he still doesn't look away. The Impala could come rumbling down the highway and turn into the lot any second now, and he doesn't want to miss it.

Uncle Bobby clears his throat. Sam takes a deep breath, sifting through the mudslide of teenage angst and Dean-less induced depression for at least some shard of grace and civility. It's not Uncle Bobby's fault that Dad and Dean have been gone for so long. Sam knows that he's just as pissed, but Uncle Bobby's not a surly, angst-ridden teenager; his anger shows through in a quiet way; in the way that his bearded jaw clenches whenever he talks at length about Sam and Dean's Dad; in the way that he constantly checks his CB just to make sure that no police reports have come in about a 1967 Chevrolet Impala being found on the side of some out of the way road.

Sam appreciates it. Uncle Bobby gives him space, but not too much that it seems like he's really trying to distance himself. Even when Sam disappears to the confines of the shower or his bedroom after watching an episode of  _Xena_  before bed, Uncle Bobby doesn't rib him about it or complain about the usage of hot water. He gets that crinkly-eyed, knowing smile, knowing full well that Sam's in the midst of growing; that he doesn't have a girlfriend and that he's just doing what comes naturally to a seventeen year-old boy.

Uncle Bobby would probably be less inclined to grin if he knew what Sam thought of when he made a deposit in the spank bank. Sam's pretty sure the man thinks that seeing Lucy Lawless in all her big blue eyed, leather armor-wearing glory is what's making him dash away immediately after he's done with the program.

It's Dean that he's thinking of though, Dean that he's picturing down on his knees in the shower stall, mouth warm and wet around Sam's dick; Dean between Sam's legs in the confines of that sagging mattress in the second spare bedroom, getting Sam off as he roughly but quietly fucks into him.

It's always just been sex between them, something that Sam resigned himself to months ago. He's had time to think things over, and knows that what goes on between the two of them is just an act of letting go. The only outlet they've ever had is hunting, and although they've both seen more and more action in the field of late, it's never quite enough to take the edge off.

"Sam..." Uncle Bobby's voice is just as concerned as always, but Sam can hear the small note of impatience. It shakes Sam out of his moody surveillance of the adjacent highway. He doesn't want to cause Uncle Bobby an unnecessary grief, least of all when he's been nothing but patient and accommodating in the last ten days.

Sighing, Sam turns away from the window and the darkening junkyard. He sees the worry etched in Uncle Bobby's tough, old face and suddenly feels incredibly ashamed of himself.

He's been acting out, albeit in a quiet way, and he can't help but shake the feeling that Uncle Bobby would rather deal with Sam being rambunctious than this silent surliness.

"M'sorry," Sam says, and he means it.

Uncle Bobby gives him a gruff smile and jerks his head over his shoulder. "Got something for you," he says. "Might help take the edge off a little bit."

Sam's genuinely curious as he follows Uncle Bobby through the comfortable clutter of his home. The TV's on, showing some lame-ass prime time sitcom. The radiator sputters again, shutting off for a moment. Uncle Bobby glares at the thing, which wheezes back to fully functioning action again, as if it fears the man's wrath above anything else.

They've already eaten. It's nearly nine and the lights in the kitchen have been thrown on. Dishes are piled in the sink, at least as many dishes as a teenage boy and middle aged man can accumulate in the space of two days. Sam resolves to wash them, just as a way of apologizing for worrying Uncle Bobby so much.

There's a bottle of Jim Beam on the round kitchen table, and two glass tumblers next to it.

Sam frowns, wondering if Uncle Bobby is expecting company. As if reading his mind, the man turns and gives Sam a genuine grin, inviting him to share in some kind of private ritual. It's only at the crinkling of the man's kind eyes that Sam realizes the spirit is meant to be shared between the two of them.

"Take a load off," Uncle Bobby says as he plops himself down onto one of the chairs. Sam automatically follows suit, staring with a small degree of excitement as Uncle Bobby pours a generous amount of amber liquid into the tumblers, one of which he slides across the table.

Sam stares at the glass, mulling over the prospect of taking something so strong down his throat.

"C'mon," Uncle Bobby says with a chuckle, "it ain't poisoned, Sam."

"Never had bourbon before," Sam says. He grips the glass in his hand and takes a sip. His tongue prickles; his mouth burns. His throat, parched from sitting in front of the dry, dusty window for so long, seems to hungrily expand as the sharp drink washes down it. Sam coughs a little, not too much. It's powerful stuff, but he's not about to show his inexperience in front of Uncle Bobby, who by the time Sam's swallowed his bourbon is already on his second pull.

"Your old man never let you have bourbon, huh?" It's a curious comment, not altogether accusatory or surprised. "Thought John would've had you drinking it out of the bottle before you hit sixteen."

"Beer," Sam replies with a tiny grin, taking another gulp of Jim Beam. It goes down easier than the first, and his brain begins to tingle with a small amount of drunken fuzz. "Dean, actually," he adds, his words not altogether as jointed as they should be. "It was, uh, Dean who gave me beer for the first time...when I was fourteen."

"What an idjit," Uncle Bobby says with a chuckle, knowing that it's such a typical thing for Dean to do. "Had my first sip of Bud when I was twelve. 'Course, I didn't have the same kinda supervision that you and your brother do."

"When we have it at all," Sam says, and then immediately regrets it. It's probably the Jim Beam. He's had three mouthfuls of it so far, and it's loosened his tongue faster than he thought. He stares down at the half-empty glass, wishing he hadn't spoken and too embarrassed to look up at Uncle Bobby.

He doesn't want to let his feelings out, especially not since Uncle Bobby's already had to deal with them simmering below the surface for nearly two weeks. In any case, Uncle Bobby isn't exactly one for sitting down and shooting the shit about emotions. He isn't anywhere near as bad as Dad, who seems to maintain a strict code of stoicism, but he doesn't exactly invite what Dean would call " _chick flick moments_."

It's a surprise to Sam, therefore, when Uncle Bobby sets down his tumbler with a gentle clink on the chipped surface of the kitchen table. "You got every right to speak your mind, Sam," he says quietly. "You don't put up with your old man's bullshit as it is."

"He's doing the best he can," Sam says, wanting to at least try and see things from his father's perspective. That, along with coming to terms with his sticky, sweaty fumblings with Dean, has been something he's tried to think more on as he's gotten older.

Uncle Bobby doesn't seem to stand for this for a second, though. "Bull," he says with a snort.

"Alright," Sam concedes, looking across the table to Uncle Bobby's lined, understanding face. "He's...he's doing the best he knows how but it's just...it's not good enough. It's nowhere near good enough."

"You're goddamn right it's nowhere near good enough," Uncle Bobby says. "You and Dean ain't soldiers, Sam. And it's about time he got that through his thick, stubborn skull." He takes another gulp of Jim Beam, bigger than the one's he's taken so far, finishing off the remainder of the amber liquid as if it were sugar water. "Your dad can be a good man when he wants to be," he says to be fair, "but he can also be a righteous prick of a drill sargeant, and that's no way to raise two boys...never has been."

"But that's why we've got you," Sam says without thinking. It's another honest statement that he'd otherwise keep to himself, but the liquor has pulled it out of him, and now there's no going back. As if afraid he'll say something he'll really, really regret, Sam pushes his glass away, the booze swirling around the bottom as though trying to seduce him into finishing it off.

He glances at Uncle Bobby, expecting him to brush off the remark with some smart-ass crack about not wanting to suddenly grow lady parts.

But again, he's surprised. Uncle Bobby's not looking at him, choosing instead to look at the table. Sam worries that he might have stepped over a line or something, but his fears are laid to rest when Uncle Bobby let's out a soft chuckle and says, "Well, shucks Sam...that's...that's nice to hear." He looks up, and Sam's relieved to see him smiling softly. "I've been...well, I've been pretty damn worried about you these last couple of weeks," he continues, "and I just...well I thought it mighta been 'cause you don't wanna be here..."

"Well," Sam says, not being to help but grin back at the evident happiness on Uncle Bobby's face, "it could use a little Lemon Pledge, but this is kind of the only home I've ever known...and I do like being here it's just..." His voice trails off, and he looks back down at his lap, not wanting to voice his worries again. He's been filling Uncle Bobby's house to the brim with his moodiness, he doesn't want to make it any worse.

"They'll be okay, kiddo," Uncle Bobby says, and suddenly they're back on the same old track they've always been. "Your dad would call if something had-"

It's as if the phone has heard their entire conversation. The abrupt ringing of it makes both Sam and Uncle Bobby jump, years of hunting demons suddenly out the window at the sheer unexpectedness of the noise. There's been nothing but radio silence for ten days. The shrill ring of the phone sounds like a siren after such a long time.

Hope flutters like a butterfly in Sam's chest as Uncle Bobby goes to answer the call, but he quickly quashes it. After all, for all he knows it's probably just a telemarketer.

Evidently, Uncle Bobby thinks the same thing because when he answers the phone he sounds guarded and terse. But when Sam sees the relief wash over the man's face, he instantly gets to his feet, almost knocking over his chair in his haste to stand by the receiver.

And when Uncle Bobby says, with exasperated relief, "John, you son of a bitch, you've had me and Sam scared as shit for the last two weeks," Sam wants to laugh because it's only been ten days, but he knows that Uncle Bobby is just trying to stick the screws to Dad.

Sam tries not to show his excitement, but he can't help it. All the bundled up worry and energy and anger seems to be seeping through cracks in his soul, making him bounce on the balls of his feet as Uncle Bobby gets the basic preliminaries from Dad. He starts to frown, a shadow coming into his eyes, but even that isn't enough to quell the excitement bubbling inside of Sam.

Uncle Bobby glances at him, the dark look vanishing briefly once he catches sight of how giddy with anticipation Sam is.

"Dean there?" Uncle Bobby asks. There's a pause, and then he adds, "Hey kiddo. Your brother's bouncing off the ceiling to talk to you." Again, another pause. Uncle Bobby laughs and adds, "Yeah, like a motherfucker...can barely tear him away from the window long enough to have dinner." He nods, and then hands the receiver to Sam, who snatches it away so fast that Uncle Bobby can only laugh and walk away, shaking his head.

Sam doesn't want to admit how heavy his breathing is, or how fast his heart is beating, but he can't help it. And when he presses the phone to his ear and says, "Dean?", his voice comes out with a slight catch.

"Hey Sammy." Dean sounds like he hasn't slept for as many days as he's been away. He sounds weak, almost as if he'll keel over any second, but Sam can here the relief in his voice, and it makes him clutch the phone all the more tightly. "You been being a pain in the ass for Bobby for me?"

Sam nods, and then, remembering that Dean can't see him, says with forced jocularity, "Yeah...driving him up the wall."

"Good."

Sam glances around the corner into the living room. He can just see Uncle Bobby sitting at his favorite armchair near the TV, which has been turned up a little more in time for the opening credits of  _Xena_. He won't hear, that much Sam is sure.

"I've missed you so much."

It's not Sam who says it first, which takes him completely by surprise. There's something in Dean's voice, something aside from the exhaustion and relief, something that Sam thinks sounds oddly like longing.

But Dean can't be longing too much.

After all, he's randier than a pack of drunken frat boys, and given the fact that he and Dad made base in Ellicott City, there's probably tons of women he's bedded in the last ten days.

He must simply just miss the brotherly camaraderie, maybe even the sheer difference between bedding Sam and screwing around with some lucky lady.

"Missed you too Dean," Sam replies, leaning against the wall just in case Uncle Bobby happens to lower the volume. In the background, Sam can hear the unmistakable sound of Dad moving around. He even thinks that he hears the long, sharp zip of a duffle bag.

But that can't be, because there's not a chance he's going to be lucky enough to have them come back yet.

"What's the weather like there?" He asks it out of habit. It's a code between them, used during those times when they're apart. They use it to find out what, if anything, the sex is like wherever they are, at least in Dean's case. Dean only asks it to find out how much Sam's been going to town on himself.

Dean chuckles dryly and says, "Bone dry, Sammy."

"Really?"

"Honest to God...been too damn busy and scared...and too damn busy missing you, Sam."

Sam frowns. "Scared?" He repeats. To his knowledge, Dean's never been scared of anything they've ever tracked down before.

"Yeah," Dean replies, and the hollowness in his voice makes Sam believe him. "This thing...well, let's just say I ain't sleeping alone for the rest of my life. I've had nightmares that look like birthday parties compared to this thing."

Sam swallows, even as he hears the muffled chuckle from Dad before the sound of a door closing. Of course, to Dad, Dean's talking about curling up with one of the many waitresses they meet during their cross country tour of haunted America.

But Sam knows better, knows the suggestiveness all too well. It makes him ache all over again, realizing that as lonely as he's been for the last ten days, Dean's had it worse having to face down just whatever the fuck it is that's got him so scared and tired.

"But you're alright, right?" Sam asks tensely. "I mean...it didn't get the jump on you and Dad did it?"

Dean's drawn out pause is enough to answer the question. Sam curses softly, his mood going from relieved to pissed in less than a second. Dad dragged Dean off for something dangerous, something that got him hurt, hurt badly.

As if to calm him down, Dean says as noncommittally as possible, "It's nothing, Sammy...just a bit of a scratch and some psychological scars, that's all."

Sam takes several steadying breaths, knowing that getting pissy will only cause unnecessary strife. Right now, his relief is outweighing his anger in any case.

"Did you guys, y'know, kill it?"

"Yeah," Dean says quietly. "Or at least...well, we stripped it of its steroids, that's for sure...all we could really do."

"But you're coming home now, right?" Sam tries to keep the anxiety out of his voice, but he can't. Dean's hurt and obviously spooked from the hunt, and all he wants to do is have him home so that he can take proper care of him.

"Yeah Sammy," Dean says, a small bit of warmth coming into his voice, and Sam knows it's because he wants to be at home as badly as Sam wants him there, "we're packing up now and heading out tomorrow...might take a little while, but I'm coming back to you."

It's such a tender thing for him to so, say incongruous to his typical swagger and bravado, but Sam doesn't think on it too much. It warms him to think of Dean wanting to be back, even if it is just for an epic roll in the sheets. Sam knows his brother well enough to understand that when all that machismo and ego is stripped away, Dean's a big old teddy bear. If Sam feels something, Dean will feel it deeper, but refuse to show it. He'll bury it under a careless shrug and a smart-ass remark, but Sam knows when something has taken a stab at Dean's soul. And, oddly enough, it seems that this lengthy separation has done it for him, and then some.

"Just been...just been so scared, Sam," Dean says, his voice weary and broken. Sam wants to comfort him, wants to be there to make him feel less alone. He doesn't know what makes him do it, or why, but suddenly he's got the bottom of the phone pressed against his lips. It's a soft kiss, brief but lingering enough. When he brings the receiver back to his ear, he can hear Dean chuckling softly.

"Didja kiss me, Sammy?"

"Long distance," Sam murmurs, surprised that he doesn't feel foolish or girly for doing something so blatantly romantic.

Dean laughs softly again, and suddenly Sam hears a soft peck, and knows that Dean just returned the favor. He can almost feel it against his cheek, soft and warm.

"Gotta go now, squirt," Dean says. His voice hardens at the prospect, and Sam knows that he doesn't want to hang up. "But I'll see you soon, kay? I promise."

"Okay," Sam replied. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful on the way home, alright?"

Dean chuckles softly. "I'll try to go the speed limit. Love you."

Sam blinks. Dean's never said that before. Dad hasn't even said that, not since Sam was ten. It hits him then just how long it's been since somebody has told him something so reaffirming, and he all but trips over his own tongue as he says, "Yeah...l-love you too, Dean..."

It's only when the connection goes dead that Sam realizes that his eyes are stinging with hot, prickly tears. He blinks them away, determined not to be so weak, forcing himself to keep his chin up.

He watches  _Xena_  with Uncle Bobby, both of them silent in spite of how obviously relieved they are. After it's over, Sam bids Uncle Bobby goodnight, and walks towards the bathroom for his nightly shower.

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is almost stylishly shabby. The sink is need of a good scrub down, but still isn't as gross as some of the basins Sam has seen in the motels across the country, the last one of which had water that Sam swears ran brown. The mirror, like the windows in the rest of the house, is streaked in places where Uncle Bobby has attempted to clean it with Windex. In spite of how cramped it is, the shower is tall, tall enough for Sam to be able to stand under the hot spray without having to stoop, something he's found himself doing more often than not in the wake of his most recent growth spurt.

He slips off his t-shirt and shucks out of his jeans and tighty-whities in the space of thirty seconds and jumps into the shower, feeling his blood rush as the hot water helps relax him.

Even with the knowledge that Dad and Dean are coming home Sam still can't help but feel anxious, only now it's because he knows that something bad happened to his brother. With no knowledge of what, and too vivid an imagination, Sam can just picture Dean doing something stupidly heroic, probably to save Dad or some innocent bystander. Whatever it is that they hunted-and in Sam's mind it looks like a combination between a Minotaur and a ghoul-it throws Dean across a room, or else gores him in the rib with a horn...

He opens his eyes to stem the flood of disturbing images. Dean's alive; so is Dad. They're probably already loading up the Impala to come roaring home at that very moment. Sam wonders if Dean will be as emotional in person as he was over the phone, wonders if he'll crush Sam to him the second they get a moment alone together.

New images come to his mind, a universe more pleasant than the ones he'd been conjuring up a moment ago...

He drops the bar of soap, his hands rubbing down his flat chest, across his tummy to ghost against the hairs of his groin. He's been shaving because he can't stand just how damn uncomfortable it is to walk around with his pubes being prickly against his underwear.

Dean's probably going to laugh his goddamn head off when he sees Sam shaved almost smooth as a baby down there, and it's the memory of what Dean sounds like when he's laughing-really laughing-that sends Sam full throttle into a sea of lust-driven images: some are just plain fantasy, others memories, memories of the first time Dean took their sparring a little too far and changed things between them irrevocably.

It was an accidentally-on-purpose moment, that much they both knew without a doubt. Things in their shared life had been a crucible from the moment Mom died, and it just seemed like a natural progression, at least to Sam.

It wasn't even that long ago when he thinks about it.

He, just a few weeks over the threshold of fifteen, his voice cracking at odd moments, his dick tenting the front of his pants at the smallest provocation. Dean found it hilarious, always having to point it out, even though Sam knows now that it doesn't take much to get Dean all hot bothered either.

In hindsight, Dean was way too obsessed with Sam's boners back then, which probably should have been a warning sign of how things were about to progress between the two of them.

Sam bites his lip as he continues to fist his wet dick, looking at the pink head of it through half-open eyes. He's grown in all the right places, as Dean is so fond of telling him. It's been several days since he got off, and he knows it was talking to Dean that kick started his hormones back into action.

He thinks back to that first time, rolling around on the dusty ground of a barn. They'd been staying at farmhouse then, and he and Dean had used the spacious, empty barn for sparring and training.

That day, Dean had taken things further, relentlessly teasing Sam, tickling him and half-jokingly trying to cup Sam's surprise woody through his track pants. It was only when Dean had him pinned beneath him that the air seemed to evaporate, leaving them staring at each other breathlessly.

Sam shifts, bracing his shoulder against the tiled wall. His opposite hand cups his plump, smooth balls as he continues to grip his cock. His long, slender middle finger ridges the small crease in his sac, massaging backwards across his perineum.

Dean all but milked Sam dry that day, pinning him on his hands and knees as he furiously jerked him off, making his cum splatter on the dried hay beneath him. Sam had thought it a fluke, something that they would never talk about again, no matter how much he had loved every last raw, raunchy second of it.

But it hadn't been shuffled under the rug, not the way he'd expected it. They'd had separate beds, separate rooms at that farmhouse, and yet somehow, Dean had come to Sam's after midnight, talked to him in his own way about how much he'd like what they'd done. He'd been concerned, afraid that he'd scared Sam, afraid because he'd liked it as much as Sam had...But Dean wasn't one for walking away from hedony, and it hadn't been long before he'd slipped into between the sheets and started jerking Sam off again, sheer, Dean-like filth spilling from his lips as Sam returned the favor, his clumsy fingers gripping Dean's impressive length like the Holy Grail.

Sam's grip on his cock tightens, his strokes becoming more and more furious as he feels the familiar heat pooling in his belly, feeling that welcome tightening of something in his tummy. His middle finger slips between his ass cheeks, probing his puckered hole.

Dean's going to fuck him into the mattress when he and Dad get back, that's for sure, and if he doesn't, then Sam's going to tie him to the bed and do it himself. Not that Dean's ever been one to deny Sam the feeling of his ass being filled by Dean's big dick before.

It only took a week of them fooling around, beating one another off and blowing each other, before they crossed another line. Dean's hung, so hung that no matter how often they've fucked Sam always feels the sting of pleasure-pain as his brother slides inside of him.

Fucking his ass with his middle finger pales in comparison to the feeling of Dean's cock, and it's the memory of that beautiful burn that makes the spring in Sam's stomach finally snap. His balls, already tight from anticipation of his orgasm, twitch; unconsciously, his ass clenches around his finger as he shoots four days worth of stored up boy juice down the drain.

Sam's mind goes just about blank as his knees buckle. It's been too long since he's come, and the force of his orgasm takes him completely by surprise. He half-sags against the wall of the shower, watching the splattering water as it washes his spunk down the drain. In the aftermath of cumming, he starts to feel drowsy, heat pricking across his face along with the warmth of the shower.

He washes up for a minute or more, before stepping out of the shower and shutting off the water. Then, as he's done for the last ten days, he walks sleepily towards the room the he shares with Dean-that he  _will_  share again with Dean-and collapses onto the mattress.

For the first time since arriving at Uncle Bobby's, he falls asleep easily.

It takes three days for them to come home.

Sam knows that it's because Ellicott City is exactly that far away from Uncle Bobby's junkyard when you factor in pitstops and sleep, but he slips back into his sulky, sullenness. It's ridiculous, and teenaged, but he can't help it. He wants Dean to be back, just to make sure that he's okay, so that he can, at least for a while, bury himself in his brother until Dean's finished with him.

Uncle Bobby is patient, as usual, although he doesn't offer Sam another glass of Jim Beam. He doesn't hover either, which Sam has always appreciated him for. They watch  _Xena_  as usual, except on Saturday because it's not on. Sam beats off each night, once in the shower and twice in bed. The sheets start to smell of him, and they'll have to be washed, but at the same time, he doesn't want to because Dean likes the way he smells.

He's looking out the window again. It's after nine, and he's starting to think that another night is going to pass before Dad and Dean get home. Sam tries hard to stave off that thought; it only leads him down a road of worrying over nothing. Just because they haven't phoned since that first night doesn't mean that anything has happened. They've probably been racing down the highway since that night and a million things could have gotten in the way, none of them with sharp claws or evil eyes.

Headlights shine down the highway bordering Uncle Bobby's junkyard. Sam barely pays them any heed. It's happened too often without any payoff and he's not about to get himself excited over nothing again.

But then the car slows, and begins to turn into the drive.

Sam perks up.

Then he's flat out running to the front door because the second the vehicle pulls up to the house, he knows who it is. Uncle Bobby's been in the living room, watching a sport's game on the TV because  _Xena_  isn't on on Sunday nights either. He looks around as Sam sprints to the front door, and then stands up when the teenager flings it open.

Dad is the first one to enter the house, and the second he sees him, all of Sam's anger rushes out of him like a flat tire. He's not pissed at Dad anymore, not even remotely. His father's in need of a shave, and the circles around his eyes are even darker than usual, his skin oddly pale. But the second he lays eyes on his youngest son, standing just away from the threshold of the door, a warm smile forms on his face, his haunted eyes lighting up. Sam almost sobs as Dad strides to him and pulls him in for a hug that's more meaningful than Sam's used to in a while. He's not seventeen and surly anymore, he's a little kid who's happy to see Daddy after a long day of school.

Dad looks down at Sam after they break apart, his eyes still brimming with fatherly affection and pride. He swallows heavily, almost guiltily and says, "I'm...I'm so sorry Sam...we didn't mean to be away that long."

Sam shakes his head and sniffs, the better to bite back at the emotion welling up in his chest. "S'okay Dad," Sam says, giving his father a bracing smile. "M'just glad that you're both home."

Dad chuckles and gives Sam another brief hug before noticing Uncle Bobby, standing near the wall by the living room. He chuckles, and strides away, leaving Sam free to see the person who followed his father across the threshold.

Uncle Bobby chooses that moment to throw the lights on, and it's a good thing because, for a moment, Sam doesn't recognize the person standing in the near-darkness, even though he knows full well who it is.

Dean looks, if anything, even more haunted than Dad. The circles under his eyes are dark, the lines running deep. His skin is just as pale, the freckles that smatter his face starkly contrasted against the caste of his skin. But these are all little details that somebody who didn't know Dean as intimately as Sam does wouldn't have noticed right away.

The one thing that immediately stands out to Sam is the beard.

Dean's always had facial hair in the past, something he usually grows out whenever he had a jones to sneak into bars or get liquor illegally. Back then it was just wispy stuff, the kind that all teenage boys got. But Dean's not a teenager anymore, hasn't been for a long time. His beard is bristly, framing the bottom half of his face, skirting around his lips and the top of his chin where pale flesh is still visible. Oddly enough, there's a reddish hue to it.

And as Sam takes in Dean's new appearance in the space of a microsecond, he realizes with a sudden, arousing jolt that the beard is undeniably the sexiest thing that he's ever seen grace his older brother's body. He almost trips over his feet in his haste to wrap his arms around Dean, who lets out a contented sigh at the contact. Sam thanks his lucky stars that he's over the part of puberty involving spontaneous boners because as he breathes in the leathery smell of Dean he feels almost drunk with it.

Dean's arms are tight around Sam, tighter than he's ever felt before. They have to keep it strictly brotherly, because Uncle Bobby and Dad are just in the next room, their voices low grumbles, but Sam can feel the difference in Dean's embrace: it's more secure, more protective, as if Sam is the one thing keeping Dean on the level now. He dips his head, his lips brushing against Sam's hair. The bristly fuzziness of Dean's beard scratches Sam's skin, making him shiver as Dean whispers, "Missed you so fucking much, Sammy."

"Yeah," Sam murmurs, still slightly lightheaded at the contact and scent of his big brother. "God, Dean...I thought you guys were never gonna come home."

Dean chuckles, and then lets go of Sam, lingering a fraction of a second longer than they let themselves get away with under such close proximity to Dad and Uncle Bobby. When their eyes meet, Sam's breath hitches at the intensity in Dean's gaze, at the sheer, unbridled longing that he finds in those beautiful emerald orbs.

Dad's voice breaks the moment between them and they both turn their heads as he and Uncle Bobby come in from the living room. Both know what's coming. It's Dad's ritual whenever something's got him really, really upset. Even before he opens his mouth Sam can tell what he'll say, and it almost makes him smile. It's a return to familiarity, even if it has pissed him off in the past.

"Bobby and I are going to head out to the bar just to tie one on." He glances at Sam, smiling a little as he adds, "I take it that's the last thing in the world you wanna do right now, huh?"

"Just wanna sleep, Dad," Dean says, and Sam can believe it from how exhausted he sounds. Dad nods in understanding. Uncle Bobby gives Dean a hug as they walk to the front door, and Dad claps Sam on the shoulder bracingly, which makes Sam feel a little bit better.

Just before Dad follows Uncle Bobby out the door, he pauses, looking back at Sam, but more pointedly at Dean. "Get some rest," he says in a voice that he usually reserves for when either one of them acts up. "And make sure you don't aggravate your injury, alright Dean?"

Sam's blood goes cold, even as Dean says goodbye and Dad walks out the door. He knows from the conversation on the phone that Dean wasn't in the best of shape. It's evident, aside from that sexy as fuck beard, that he hasn't slept and that whatever happened in Ellicott City was terrible, but injuries? Sam begins to bristle with rage and worry, and waits until he hears the engine of Bobby's old clunker sputtering to life before he rounds on Dean.

"What injuries?" He says through gritted teeth.

Dean rubs his bearded jaw, which serves as a momentary distraction for Sam, who can't help but wonder what it would feel like to have that bristly mass rubbing against the inside of his thighs. He swallows heavily, forcing himself to get a leash on his hormones for the time being.

"What injuries?" he repeats. Dean looks at him guiltily, and slowly shrugs off his jacket, which falls to the floor. He winces only once as he reaches down and lifts up his shirt.

Sam's eyes nearly bug out of his head. Dean's had some nasty run-ins in the past, some of which Sam would rather forget about. The evidence is peppered all over his hard, flat body, but that's not what draws Sam's eyes.

There are four long, shiny, pink gashes only just starting to heal running along the side of Dean's chest, right over his ribs. Sam's seen his fair share of nasty injuries since Dad let him become a part of hunting. He's been there to treat some of Dad's, and most if not all of Dean's. He's seen werewolf scratches and blood bruises; vampire bite marks and burns from fire-breathing monsters. Never has he seen something this visceral. The gashes have a jagged edge to them, as though whatever attacked Dean had serrated claws.

Instantly, Sam reaches out to touch them, but Dean takes a step away, lowering his shirt over his chest and looking at Sam almost apologetically, but Sam can't think of anything that is less his brother's fault than being hurt so badly.

"What the hell was that thing anyway?" Sam says, his eyes still on Dean's now clothed chest.

Dean's eyes darken as if the very thought of what he and Dad faced. Sam notices his muscles tense. Dean's spooked by the very mention of whatever it was, and Sam suddenly feels as if he doesn't want to know after all.

"I really don't know, Sam," Dean says after a moment, leaning against the wall, arms over his chest. "Some kind of...some kind of monster from a little kid's storybook...don't even know how the fuck it turned up in our world but it was just...it was just so awful." There's something childlike in Dean's fear, something that makes Sam instantly step forward and wrap his arms around Dean's broad shoulders.

Dean's head rests against Sam's neck, and Sam can't help but shiver slightly when he feels his brother's bewhiskered jaw brushing against his skin again.

"It, uh, jumped me when we were getting the layout of the house," Dean murmurs against Sam's neck. "Just tackled me from inside one of the closets...went over the stairs and everything before Dad got it off me." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, as if the memory is still fresh in his mind. Sam's fingers gently travel over Dean's chest, stopping just at the side of his ribs where the gashes are.

Dean lifts his head.

Their eyes meet.

Somehow-and maybe it's the beard that's doing it-Dean looks a good five years older to Sam. The shadow's are still deep under his eyes, but as Sam keeps his gaze he sees the spark that he knows so well ignite. Dean's hands grip the sides of Sam's face and pull him in, kissing him fiercely.

Sam's used to making out; hell, it's one of his favorite things to do on a lazy Saturday afternoon when their hormones aren't getting the better of them.

This isn't just making out though, at least not at first.

Dean's lips are on fire as he kisses Sam, pushing them both away from the wall, staggering blindly backwards towards the hall the leads to their bedroom. Dean tastes like cherry soda and spit; his hands knot their way into Sam's hair as he pushes him up against the cramped hallway wall.

Sam doesn't want to hurt Dean, but apparently his injury isn't all that grave because he's grinding into Sam so hard that he's surprised they haven't fallen through the wall.

And that beard...that goddamn beard is driving Sam absolutely crazy. Every rub of Dean's jaw against Sam's face leaves a prickly burn against his skin, making him feel rubbed raw by the time they stumble through the bedroom door. He can't remember ever seeing Dean so hot and bothered, except maybe only when they first started screwing around.

Their teeth clack together several times, and Sam almost feels like they're trying to devour each other. Dean's tongue is going everywhere in his mouth, his beard scratching him in a way that makes every nerve in his body stand up.

Their clothes end up in a pile on the floor in the space of about fifteen seconds, but neither of them think to throw on the light. They know each other's bodies too well by this point. The fiery, scratchy heat on Sam's face dissipates a little once they break apart. They're both breathing heavily, their lips wet and swollen from how hard they were kissing.

Dean's eyes shine like jeweled insects in the darkness. There isn't enough room between them for breathing. Sam feels the warm air around them caressing his bare skin, can see the tent in the front of Dean's boxers. The sizable lump in Sam's own tighty-whities is almost painfully hard, and it's with a relieved giggle that he lets Dean push him onto the mattress and start attacking his chest with hot kisses and long, lascivious licks.

The first prickly touch of Dean's beard against Sam's bare chest make him hiss in pleasure. He wonders dimly if it's normal to be turned on by a facial hair. Dean looks so damn good with it, though, and more importantly he feels too damn good with it; the bristly fuzz of it scratches teasingly along Sam's skin, almost overriding the sensation of Dean lapping at his nipples.

Even when Dean starts getting bitey, all Sam can focus on his how goddamn good that sandpaper scratch feels on his chest.

And then Dean moves his head a little to the left, and suddenly Sam feels like a million little feathers are being dragged over his ribs. Before he can help it, he's giggling at every motion of Dean's face, his legs twitching.

Dean looks up at him, removing his teeth from Sam's skin, looking completely confused.

"What's so damn funny?"

"N-nothing," Sam says through a stifled giggle. Dean keeps eye contact for half a moment, and then he's right back at it, tongue swirling around the hard, pink bud on Sam's flat pec. He moves his face to the side once more, and Sam flat out laughs, the sensation unexpected and completely overwhelming.

"St-stop, Dean," he says, even as Dean continues to get his nipple nice and wet, "you're t-tickling me-ah-ha-ha-ha!" Sam squeezes his eyes shut as Dean's whiskers brush against that ticklish spot on his rib cage.

Dean pauses, and then looks back up at Sam again. Even through his laughter, Sam can see the impish smirk on his older brother's face.

"It's tickling you, huh?" Dean says, stroking his bearded jaw. "Well...guess we'll just have to find all your sweet spots, won't we Sammy?" And then Dean's flat out attacking Sam with his beard, rubbing his jaw against almost every part of exposed skin he can reach.

Sam's mortified that there are so many spots on him that seem to be hardwired for tickling. He thrashes pitifully against his brother's full-facial assault, giggling and snorting and slapping Dean's back in a half-assed kind of way. The friction between them is tight; Sam can feel the hard, wetness of Dean's length jutting into his own, but his mind is too occupied with how much Dean's beard is tickling him to really pay much attention.

It's only when Sam finally moans out that he's going to pee if Dean doesn't stop that he finally relents. He's chuckling as much as Sam is laughing when he rests his head against the Sam's chest, which is rising and falling rapidly as Sam tries to catch his breath. Sam can feel his cock pressed against Dean's body, rigid and leaking in spite of how in danger he was of pissing the bed a moment ago.

Sam smiles down at Dean, and brushes his brother's beard with the back of his knuckles.

Dean's eyes suddenly go extra bright.

Gently, he lays his head on Sam's chest like he's the world's most comfortable pillow. It's not exactly the fucking-through-the-mattress sex that Sam was anticipating, but it's still enough and...and so uncharacteristic. Dean usually saves these kinds of displays of affection for after sex, when he's too spent to even keep his eyes open.

Sam isn't complaining though. He'd have to be out of his mind to complain. His hands run up Dean's back, over the smooth dent of his neck and streak through his hair, stroking him like a luxurious cat. It's so comfortable and so right, and Sam thinks that he could very well lie like this with Dean until the sun comes up when he realizes that something's not all that perfect.

For one thing, Dean's chest is shaking, heaving with something that Sam only realizes is sobs when he hears the muffled noise of them against his chest. He can feel the warm, wet drops of tears and for a moment he simply stares down at Dean, fingers still combing through his hair, completely dumbfounded.

Dean's never cried before, not like this, because Dean just simply doesn't cry.

Sam's supposed to be the emotional one, not Dean.

And yet there he is, shaking with his hiccuping, half-muffled sobs, crying into Sam's chest.

"Dean...?" Sam wants to comfort him, to soothe and shush him the way Dean used to do to him when he was a little kid.

Dean finally looks up at him, tears streaming down his face and into his beard. It's so pitifully contradictory to what Sam knows of his older brother that he just simply stares, heart sick and not knowing what to do, or what for that matter has got Dean so upset. He feels the momentary confusion of a parent who wants to comfort a child but doesn't know how. For the longest time Sam was the one having to be comforted.

Dean swallows heavily after a moment, rubbing his eyes on the back of his hand. "S-shit," he says breathlessly, "I'm sorry, Sam I...I didn't mean to..."

"Don't be stupid," Sam says, sitting up against the pillows as Dean continues to rub at his eyes.

"I just...I really didn't think that I was ever gonna see you again." Dean's voice is still thick, even though he's stifled his quiet sobbing. It catches in his throat when he looks Sam in the eyes, and for a moment Sam wonders if he'll start crying again.

Dean seems to settle for gently laying his head against Sam's chest again, staring at the dark opposite wall. Protectively, Sam wraps his arms around Dean the way Dean used to do to him after a nightmare.

"Was it...was it really that awful?" Sam says in a small voice.

Dean nods. "Fucking horrible, Sammy. This...this huge, ugly grin...pale face, worse than a fucking clown and these long claws. And-" Dean gulps and then plows on bravely, "and the sound it made...didn't think something that croaked like a goddamn frog could be so fucking terrifying."

"But it's...it's gone, right?"

"Not really...well, kind of...It was Dad, actually...Dad got rid of it, but that was only after it just about got us for good." Dean chuckles softly, his breath playing pleasantly across Sam's bare skin. "Started screaming at it when it came at me on our last night there...told it to fuck off and whole bunch of other stuff...it sounds kind of messed up, but I think he scared the hell out of it, at least enough to trap it in a jam jar."

Sam chuckles. "A jam jar?" He repeats incredulously. "What, so it's like a genie now?"

"Something like that...we threw it in the Potomac on our way back." Dean takes a deep breath and then sits up suddenly, looking down at Sam with eyes blazing. If Sam hadn't seen it for himself, he wouldn't have known that Dean had been crying less than two minutes ago. There's such intensity in his gaze that Sam sinks back into the pillow a little, feeling the full gravity of his being the younger, inexperienced one in this situation.

"I kept thinking about you," Dean says, his fingers finding Sam's and lacing through them in the darkness. Again, it's such an uncharacteristically touching gesture that Sam feels a little light-headed for a moment, even as Dean continues speaking gently to him. "Kept thinking of you here, all alone Sammy...how much I didn't want to die, 'cause I didn't want to leave you like that. I guess it kept me going, Sam. I wasn't gonna let that son of a bitch have me, or Dad, because I wasn't going to leave you all alone, not after everything."

Sam smiles. He can't help it. It's such a rare showing of affection, even if it is just brotherly. He can picture Dean fighting like a rabid wolverine against the monster, which in his mind looks like a cross between Freddy Krueger and the Cheshire Cat. He can see Dean never giving up for a second, holding on even after being hurt, just because he wanted to see Sam again.

Once more he reminds himself it's a perfectly normal, older brotherly thing to think, even if they are bare ass naked in bed together, even if the scratch of Dean's beard is still stinging his face.

Dean takes Sam's chin in his fingers, forcing him to look up.

"I love you, Sam," Dean says softly.

Sam grins and says, "Love you too, Dean." Again, a normal, brotherly thing to say. But Dean seems to sense that Sam's put the barrier up, because he shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving Sam's. It's only then that Sam's heart begins to thump in his chest, only then that his breath starts to hitch in his throat.

"Not getting it, Sammy." Dean's voice is a low rumble in his throat, but Sam can practically feel the meaning in his words. "This," Dean gestures at Sam's naked body, at his cock, now soft and limp atop his balls, "it doesn't...it doesn't mean the same...not anymore."

Sam's face falls for a second. Dean catches this and chuckles again, swooping down suddenly to peck Sam's lips softly. Sam can't even think about that being unlike Dean either, not when that delicious, warm beard grazes his skin once more.

"Shit," Dean says, still grinning, "guess I'm not as good at this as I thought, huh?"

"That depends," Sam says. "What exactly are you trying to say, Dean?"

Dean takes a deep breath and thinks for a moment. He's not the most articulate, which Sam likes in a way. It means that whenever Dean does choose he's words, he's doing it from a genuine, honest place.

Just like now.

"It means," Dean says after a moment, "that I had a lot of time to think this over, Sammy...lots of nights and days when I wouldn't or couldn't get to sleep these past two weeks when I'd just stay up thinking about you...about us and all of...all of  _this_." Again, he gestures at Sam's naked body, and it doesn't take a genius level intellect to know what " _this_ " is. "I don't know if you noticed," Dean goes on, "but I haven't really been looking at us as something real, y'know? I mean-and this is gonna sound really shitty of me, but just hear me out-I like fucking around with you because...well, because it feels pretty damn good, right?"

"Right." Sam couldn't argue there even if he tried.

"But these last two weeks," Dean says, "I guess it's just what happens when you're away from someone for so long but...but I wanted to be back here with you, Sam, not just because I was scared out of my wits by that fucking thing but because I wanted to hear you again...to, y'know, just be there and feel good about making you smile, or just be there to help you through it when you're sad or pissed off...to just fall asleep with you, or stay awake and watch you fall asleep."

Dean takes a deep breath. This is a leap for him, that much Sam knows full well. He doesn't know if Dean's ever been this open with somebody before, and he suddenly feels all that much more important to his big brother because Dean's choosing to be with him, to expose the side of himself that really does give a whole lot of damns.

"You got me through it, Sam," Dean goes on, "not just because I wanted to see you again, not just because I didn't want to leave you alone but because...well, because I wanted to tell you the truth...'bout how I feel now..."

Sam's eyes are glued to Dean's now. It's like it was back in that barn almost two years ago when Dean's hands first closed around Sam's dick. There's no air in the room, but it's not in a gasping, desperate way.

Sam feels weightless, like a speck of something intangible, something brilliant like starlight. He gazes up at Dean, his eyes brimming with hope that he learned to bury somewhere between that day in the barn and his sixteenth birthday. Dean sees it, and he smiles at Sam, and leans down to kiss him again. Sam opens his lips, suddenly wanting to be drunk on the taste of Dean's warm breath.

Dean's beard bristles against his skin, and Sam catches a bit of it in his lips as they break apart, as though he's kissing it too.

"Guess what I'm trying to say," Dean says finally, "is that...you're more to me, Sam...so much more and I'm so fucking sorry that I didn't see it at first." He sighs, almost in a self-disgusted way and adds, "You're not just a fuck-piece to me, Sammy...not anymore. I love you...no matter what anybody thinks. I don't care if we have to move to Canada and pretend to be friends or something...I wanna be with you...and I don't ever wanna be away from you that long ever again."

Sam can scarcely breathe; he can't think straight. He doesn't know if this is just some kind of dream and if he'll wake up in five seconds in bed alone again. Dean's eyes are still on his, completely devoid of any bullshit, tiny green pinpricks in the darkness of that cramped little bedroom. Sam doesn't care if it's not real anymore. Dream sex-dream love-is better than anything, least of all what he finds in the waking world. He arches up, practically grabbing Dean by the back of the head and capturing his lips again.

Everything is suddenly on fire, and maybe it's just because of that beautiful fucking beard, but Sam feels warm all over. His cock twitches back to life with speed that only a teenager can achieve. It falls hard against his navel, and he ruts upwards as he and Dean continue to kiss the air out of each other's mouths. Dean's getting just as hard against Sam, the rigid friction of him pressing into Sam's leg.

Dean's back to wanting to devour Sam again; his lips travel down Sam's neck, across his chest and lower still. Each fuzzy brush of his bearded jaw makes Sam let out tiny, little gasping breaths. Dean buries his face in Sam's groin, pushing his legs apart, calloused hands bracing on the inside of Sam's thighs. Sam feels Dean's warm breath play against his bare skin as he lets out a soft chuckle; the next second Sam's gasping and arching up as Dean takes him into his mouth.

It's be too long, far too goddamn long since Sam's felt the secure, warm wetness of his brothers lips around his length. Dean's a pro when it comes to blowjobs, and even though Sam's no slouch in the junk department either, he takes him all the way down to the hilt. Sam gasps, thrusting his hips forward. Dean's beard is brushing against the inside of his thighs, his whiskered chin ghosting over Sam's balls.

Sam can't help but squirm at the added sensation; Dean's mouth is warm and soft and his beard hot and scratchy.

Dean told him over the phone that he hadn't had time for any action in Maryland, and judging from how fervently he's sucking on Sam's dick, Sam can well believe it.

Dean knows how crazy both his mouth and his beard are driving Sam, and he takes full advantage of it, brushing his peppered jaw against Sam's smooth, hard thighs with each bob of his head. Sam's groaning and squirming, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on the back of his brother's dark blonde head. Dean licks down the entirety of Sam's length, his tongue gliding over Sam's sac. His beard brushes against Sam's cock, and he all but starts at the bristly feeling against his own super-sensitivity. He can feel himself leaking like a firehose, precome dribbling from the tip of his dick. Just the thought of him getting Dean's beard and all wet and sticky sends another shiver up his spine, a shiver which turns into a half-spasm when Dean deftly grabs Sam around his legs and pulls him closer, simultaneously lifting his legs up to have an unobstructed view of Sam's ass.

Dean smirks at the sight, which makes the heat in Sam's belly reach supernova levels. He'll never admit it out loud, not that there's much need to because he knows that Dean knows, but he'll never get over the raw, primal feeling of being completely at his brother's mercy like this, so exposed and ready for him. His dick is flush with his stomach, hard and leaking; Dean's got a full view of Sam's smooth, round ass.

Dean seems to sense the moose-in-the-headlights feeling that Sam's got, because he smirks down at him and makes a show of wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

"Mmm," he says, a low rumble in his chest, "tastes even better than I remembered, Sammy."

Sam's cock twitches at that, which Dean also notices. With his trademark swagger, he bends down, his lips brushing against one of Sam's ass cheeks. His beard, which has already been responsible for so much of Sam's wet, hard, sticky messiness, grazes the side of Sam's other cheek and Sam all but whimpers at the contact.

Dean chuckles. "Think you like this," he murmurs as he separates Sam's ass and begins rubbing a finger along the outside of Sam's hole.

His breath shaky, Sam lets out a small moan and says, "Y-yeah, Dean...fuck yeah...like it so much."

"Want me in you?" It's such a ridiculous question, especially when Dean licks two of his fingers and starts to probe Sam's ass almost immediately after asking. Sam keens forward, staring down at Dean. His brother is almost in danger of slipping off the mattress, his naked body drawn tightly around itself as he continues to plume the depths of Sam's ass with his long, steady fingers. He's looking straight between Sam's legs, keeping his eyes fixed on Sam's.

"You been jacking off, Sammy?" Dean murmurs, giving Sam's dick a peck on the leaking head. It's plainly rhetorical, and Sam couldn't answer even if he wanted to. "Yeah, I bet you have," Dean goes on, brushing the rim of Sam's hole with his thumb. Sam's mind goes white-blank at the prospect of Dean adding another digit to the two already working in and out of his ass, but his brother seems perfectly content to just tease.

"Thinking about me every time you spank it huh, Sammy? Bet you got these sheets all nice and soaked with all that hot boy spunk in the last two weeks, haven't you?"

The moan building in Sam's throat turns into a full on gasp when Dean's fingers curl inside of him, brushing against that bundle of nerves that only Dean ever seems to be able to find.

Sam begins twisting his hips, trying to urge Dean out no matter how good it feels; there's not a chance in hell he's going to let Dean let him come untouched, or without Dean's own dick buried inside of him. He's waited too long, and as much as his brother's dirty-talking finger-fucking is driving him wild, he wants Dean's dick and he wants it now.

"D-Dean," Sam manages to choke out as Dean's fingers bump against him again, "Dean, c'mon..."

"Want me inside you, Sam?"

"Fuck! Yes Dean, please!" Sam's not above begging at this point. It seems to do the trick because Dean slides his fingers out of Sam's hole and crawls back up the bed, hovering over Sam like a protective spirit.

The air in the bedroom is hot with their heavy breathing and sweaty bodies, but Sam doesn't giving a rat's ass. The collective smells of his and Dean's musk; of Dean's own leathery scent only serves to remind Sam that this isn't some powerful wet dream; that Dean is actually there, his whiskered jaw brushing against Sam's smooth one as he kisses him.

Dean angles his big dick, slapping it once and then twice against Sam's hole. Sam grinds upwards into Dean, the sound and the hard feeling only making him all the more insistent. If Dean's not careful Sam's going to spurt right there and he wants to hold on as much as he can.

Dean smiles down at him, his green eyes brimming with a love that Sam never thought he'd see there. He kisses Sam again, much more softly then before, the contact warm and gentle and it almost make Sam cry from how fucking beautiful it feels.

Then Dean pushes into him.

It's been exactly three weeks since Dean's been inside of him. Sam knows his fair share of biology, but he had no idea that his own body could ever get unused to Dean. They've been going at it for two years, and Sam's been able to take Dean like a champ for at least one of those.

But the time that's passed has somehow made him tight as a virgin again and he actually cries out when he feels Dean's slick, big cock press into him.

Dean stills, staring down at Sam with worry in his eyes. "Shit," he says, "didn't hurt you, did I Sam?"

Sam shakes his head and offers his brother a small smile.

"S'okay," he says, wrapping his arms around Dean and pulling him down for another kiss. "S'just...it's been too long Dean..."

Dean nods, rubbing his bearded jaw against the side of Sam's face.

"I know, baby," Dean murmurs and it's the first time he's ever called Sam that. "Won't let it happen again, kay?"

"Good," Sam whispers.

Dean starts slow, much to slow for Sam's taste. He knows Dean's just being careful, knows that Dean doesn't want to split him open; that he wants to be sweet and loving the way they've never really been before. But Sam wants it too much, and it's not long before he's gripping Dean's ass in both of his hands and all but forcing him to go faster and deeper.

Dean's letting out throaty gasps with each push of his hips. Slick friction forms between them from the place where Sam's wet, hard dick is trapped between their bodies, rutting into Dean's tummy every time Dean thrusts. Sam can't believe that he was able to survive so long without his brother, and suddenly his hands travel from Dean's flexing ass up to his shoulders; then he's wrapping his arms tightly around Dean's neck, clinging to him as Dean continues to move inside of him.

Dean drops his face to Sam's thorat, his beard scratching the side of Sam's face in that fucking incredible, hot way that leaves delicious burns on Sam's skin. Sam hisses when Dean's teeth nip at his throat and all he can fucking think about is walking around tomorrow with a big, red love bite and a sore ass.

He belongs to Dean, he's always wanted to belong to Dean and Dean seems completely willing to claim him.

Sam grips Dean all the more tightly when he drives himself all the way to the hilt, his balls pressing against the bottom of Sam's ass. Dean stills just for a moment, looking into Sam's eyes before kissing him again. He moves, in and out, faster and faster, and suddenly the pressure in Sam becomes unbearable. He lets out a gasp, his words a tangle of curses and " _Dean's_ " and half-formed utterances about how fucking good it feels; then he's cumming between them, hot jizz splattering his and Dean's bellies.

"Fuck," Dean hisses, pumping once, twice, three times before he lets out the loudest moan Sam has ever heard. Dean hasn't gotten off in two weeks, and Sam isn't prepared for the almost violent bucking of his hips as he comes all warm and wet inside of him. Evidently Dean isn't prepared for it either because he all but collapses on top of some with the force of his orgasm, pressing Sam's softening cock between them, groaning out, " _Sam, oh fuck_ - _Sammy_!"

They lie there like that for a moment, hot and sticky, Dean's breath ragged in Sam's ear, his beard grazing the side of Sam's face as he lays with his face nestled in Sam's neck. Sam subconsciously finds himself stroking Dean's back, fingers running over the shallow indents where his nails pressed in earlier.

Dean chuckles softly, then pulls out of Sam, who groans at the sudden emptiness.

It's a typical clean-up routine for them. Dean blindly grabs for the first piece of material that he can find in the darkness of their room, which just happens to be the tighty-whites Sam wore earlier. Sometimes they'll fall asleep together without cleaning up, but it's too damn warm in their room as it is. And, judging from the careful way Dean mops up the jizz on Sam's belly and in between his thighs, Dean wants to be the caretaker tonight, and probably for a lot more nights to come.

Still, they have to be careful. Dad and Uncle Bobby aren't going to be camping out at the bar, no matter how much they would probably like to. They'll be home before morning. Dad's worried about them both, what with the hunt already taking so much out of himself and Dean, and Sam knows he'll most likely check in.

Dean throws him a pair of loose, comfortable, thin pajama bottoms and climbs back into his boxers. They have to at least make it look like nothing's happened, and Sam knows that one of them will wake in time to put distance between them in bed. He thinks it'll be Dean, just because Dean seems to want to keep taking as much care of Sam as he can.

As if to cement this notion, Dean wraps his arms around Sam after they get into their state of sleep-dress, and Sam doesn't hesitate a second to curl into the secure warmth of Dean's embrace.

It's different from everything they've ever done before. In the past they usually just rolled over and fell asleep after sex, or else talked at length about nothing in particular until they fell asleep. It's this that makes Sam realize that things are going to be as different from now on, and he grins to himself.

Dean kisses the side of Sam's face again, his beard prickling against Sam's skin again.

"Love you Sam," Dean murmurs.

"Yeah," Sam replies softly, "love you too, Dean." They're silent for a moment, and then Sam says, the hope in his voice plainly evident, "Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you do me a solid?"

"What?"

"Keep the beard?"

Dean's chuckle is warm, vibrating through his chest. He brushes his bearded jaw against Sam's face again and says, "Like it that much, huh?"

"Fuck yes."

"Alright...it's a keeper."

Sam smiles, closing his eyes as he lets his exhaustion get the better of him. "Good," he mumbles, and before long, both of them are fast asleep, the side of Sam's face pressed securely against Dean's, that bearded jaw downy soft against him.


End file.
